


Connection

by Unfeathered



Series: Connection [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-06
Updated: 2007-08-06
Packaged: 2021-01-23 14:45:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21321910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unfeathered/pseuds/Unfeathered
Summary: Jack just wants to make a connection with someone who understands…
Relationships: Rupert Giles/Jack Harkness
Series: Connection [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1584910
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	Connection

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I ever posted, and still one of my favourites. Slashing Jack with Giles initially came about because I couldn't see Jack working with either Owen or Ianto (I hadn't even realised he was supposed to be with Ianto in S1 of Torchwood, it was that subtle!) and once I'd got them together, it developed into SO much more…
> 
> Set during Season 6 of Buffy (between Tabula Rasa and Two To Go) while Giles is in England. Jack is at Torchwood, but it’s only 2002 so it’s not Torchwood as we know it yet. (And this was written before _Fragments_ but I don't think it contradicts anything in that.)
> 
> Originally posted [here](https://unfeathered.livejournal.com/11117.html) on 6 August 2007. Beta'd by [jadesfire](https://jadesfire.livejournal.com/).

Algy’s funeral hits him harder than he expects. The man had a good life, lived to the age of 87, and only had to outlive his partner of forty years by a few months. Jack overhears whispers at the funeral that that was what got Algy in the end: being left behind. It’s a feeling he’s all too familiar with, and he can’t help envying Algy for being able to follow his beloved.

He hovers at the back of the little church for the service and lingers, huddled in his greatcoat, on the outskirts of the burial outside, thinking not of the old man in the coffin but the young man he’d once been – the young men they’d both been, together. Lifetimes ago, for Jack. Young and carefree with the world at their fingertips: even more so for Jack than for most young men, with a time-travelling spaceship to take him any place and time he wanted.

He feels old.

He can’t face driving all the way back to the Hub tonight. There’s no-one there who can understand how he feels. The only man who could possibly understand is a universe away and Jack has no idea if he’ll ever see him again.

The pub in the next village has rooms, and a chalk board outside saying “Live music tonite”. Jack pulls over and, with only a tiny grimace at the spelling, heads inside. A bit of booze, a bit of music and some company sound good. If he can’t talk about how he feels, at least perhaps he can _forget_ for a while.

The “live music” isn’t a band. It’s just a guy in the corner with an acoustic guitar, singing “Free Bird”. Not what he expected, but the guy’s good. Jack gets a brandy and sits down to listen. The only free table is at the front, just feet away from the singer, because most people don’t want to sit that close, but Jack’s not shy and besides, he likes what he sees.

The singer is older than Jack is – well, older than he _appears_ to be – but has the sort of look that means he’s probably even more attractive now than he was when the song was written. Lines at his eyes, yes, but mainly laughter-lines. Little lines round his mouth too, lines formed by keeping secrets, or biting back inappropriate comments. Cheekbones to die for. A little gold hoop in one ear that harks back to a misspent youth. And when he glances up from his guitar at the end of the song to appraise his audience, Jack discovers his eyes have a twinkle in them that’s not old at all.

Those eyes linger on Jack for a moment, because he wasn’t there the last time the singer looked up. Being Jack, he meets the look - casually, but not letting his gaze slide away as most people would - and there’s a spark of recognition of a kindred spirit in the musician’s eyes before he moves on. He directs a bewitching smile at the audience in general, in response to the modest applause that’s normal this early in the evening, then drops his gaze to his instrument again as his fingers pick out the introduction to the inevitable “Stuck In The Middle”. Jack helpfully joins in with the harmonies on the chorus and gets another glance, startled this time, and a crinkle round the eyes that might almost be a smile.

Music always helps him feel better, and this time he’s got a conquest to make too. At the end of the first set, he’s out of his seat and across to the singer before he’s even had time to lift the guitar off over his head.

“May I buy you a drink?” he asks, hands in pockets, patent smile, casually charming.

Hazel eyes lift up to his in surprise, and the singer goes motionless, guitar still only half-off. Then, carefully, he continues the movement and sets the guitar down beside his stool, a small smile forming. _Wary_, Jack thinks, and wonders what this guy’s got to be cautious about.

“Thank you,” he says, the voice an unexpectedly upper-class contrast to the mid-Atlantic accent of the songs. “A pint of IPA would go down very nicely.”

Jack grins, heads for the bar, and manages in his usual effortless way to get served before anyone else. He orders two pints, chats up the barmaid while they’re pulled, and winds his way back to his own table, jerking his head at the singer to come and join him. There’s another slight pause as the guy considers, then he walks over and takes the chair from across the table and sets it at right angles to Jack’s. “Instruments have been known to go missing during the interval,” he explains concisely, glancing back to make sure his is still there. Then he takes the second pint on the table and lifts it briefly towards Jack’s. “Cheers,” he murmurs sardonically, taking a long draught of its contents.

Jack gestures with his own glass and a small smile before tasting for himself. The beer is light and malty and certainly does go down nicely.

He says, “It’s nice to hear some good music for once. Some of the old classics. I miss them. So much of the modern stuff is just beat and noise.”

That gets him another surprised look as the hazel eyes study him more closely. “Surely you weren’t around when those songs were?”

Jack grins, all teeth. “You’d be surprised. I’m older than I look.”

“Really?” He produces some spectacles from the pocket of his soft suede coat and puts them on. With them, he suddenly looks complete, as if they bring him into focus. Jack braces himself for a more intense examination, but all he gets is a polite smile. “Ah well, nice to meet another aficionado. I miss that era. Then, I was young and fancy-free.”

Jack feels a tug of empathy. “And you’re not now?”

“Well, not as young as I was. But yes, actually, I am very much free now. Too free, really. Too much time on my hands.”

“You seem to be putting it to good use,” Jack says, meaning it. “Your music’s very good. You have a lovely tone.”

“Thank you.” The older man pauses, as if reassessing the situation. “Look, I’m sorry if I seemed a little…standoffish. I – I’m trying to start a new part of my life and I’m finding it…hard.”

“I get that,” says Jack, who really does. He’s lost count of the number of new beginnings he’s had to make. “Let’s try starting again, shall we?” He puts down his pint and holds out his hand instead. “Jack Harkness.”

There’s still a faint hesitation before his drinking partner does the same. But when he does, his handshake is firm and sure. “Rupert Giles.”

The second set is more diverse than the first. Yes, there are some more 70s classics (“Badge”, “Behind Blue Eyes”, “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road”) but there are also some less likely candidates. “Bridge Over Trouble Water”, the opening riff of which has Jack wincing because it’s a hard song to pull off – but Rupert Giles manages it. There’s also an amazing song which Jack doesn’t know, something about “Standing in the Way”. It’s heartbreakingly sad and suits Rupert’s voice perfectly. And even “Pity The Child” from “Chess”, which is surprisingly effective played acoustically and really shows off Rupert’s sexy, rocky voice. Jack is completely hooked.

Rupert Giles doesn’t seem to have any other groupies there, so at the end, when the applause to the last of many ‘final’ choruses of “American Pie” has died away, Jack goes over to him again. He can’t seem to stay away.

Not that Rupert seems to mind, now he’s got over his initial surprise at piquing someone’s interest. In fact, once he’s finished packing up and they’ve stood there talking music for another ten minutes with the pub emptying around them and the barman giving them increasingly evil get-out-I-want-my-bed glares, he invites Jack home for another drink and some more music, this time “played by the professionals.”

They walk along easily, not like old friends but like kindred spirits, people who understand each other, and Jack finds an opening to comment, “What was that song you sang about standing in the way? Lovely song. Really suited your voice.”

The other man’s eyes shift a little nervously, as if there’s something he doesn’t want to divulge about that song, but all he says is, “It was written for me, in a manner of speaking.”

That makes sense. “You sang it like you meant it,” Jack agrees. “Who is she?”

“Hmm?” Rupert’s gaze has gone vague, distant.

“Who was it you had to leave for their own good? Your daughter?”

“No, I don’t have any children. But yes, she’s…she was like a daughter to me.”

He obviously doesn’t want to say any more, so Jack doesn’t pursue the matter. In any case, they must be nearly there, because Rupert is fumbling in his pocket for a key. A minute later, he’s ushering Jack up a gravelled drive up to an impressively large house. Jack is a little overawed, but the living room Rupert leads him into, although large, is comfortable and even a little shabby and he feels at home immediately.

They put on some more Cream, which is fine with Jack because, even though it’s not the music of his formative years as it is Rupert’s, he’s lived through those years (some of them more than once) and he has memories too. Rupert brings out some whisky that’s far superior to anything in the pub and they drink it sitting on the floor with their backs against the couch. Jack thumbs through Rupert’s impressive collection of vinyl, which sparks discussion about albums they loved and groups they went to see, and by the time Jack comes across “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” and suggests a change of tone, they’re both drunk enough to think it’s a great idea. Jack starts singing along, Giles joins in, and before long they’re both strutting around doing the “Time Warp” and being sweet transvestites and having a whale of a time.

By the time they get to “Super Heroes”, they’ve calmed down a bit and are on the floor again, drinking more of Rupert’s excellent whisky. They sit in silence as the final repeat of “Science Fiction” rolls out, each thinking his own thoughts. Jack’s are to do with the irony that there are far stranger things in the universe than transvestites from outer space. Hell, he’s slept with some of them. He leans his head back against the couch cushion and tilts it to look at Rupert. The other man is staring into oblivion, drink forgotten in his hand, and Jack wonders what he sees. Nothing as weird as aliens, he’s sure. Possibly the girl he was singing about. Jack watches him for a long while, as the music finally dies out and the record needle lifts with a little click and returns itself to its starting position. There’s a definite sadness in Rupert’s face and Jack has to fight back an urge to sweep back the wavy hair and kiss the sadness away.

Then it occurs to him that he doesn’t have to resist. He leans forward and brushes his lips across Rupert’s in the lightest of kisses.

It’s enough to bring Rupert back from wherever he was. His eyes fly to Jack’s, and cling there. “You know,” he says, sounding amused, “if I were ten years younger… ”

Jack smiles too, and answers the genuine question lurking behind the humour. “I’ve discovered,” he says slowly, reaching out and delicately plucking off Rupert’s glasses, “that age really has very little to do with anything.” Then he very deliberately moves to straddle Rupert’s legs and he leans down to kiss him again, more forcefully. Rupert groans, and responds in kind, insistent tongue driving into Jack’s mouth, beer and whisky combining to make him perhaps a little rougher than he would normally be, but it’s all good with Jack. Then Rupert shifts, obviously wanting more leverage than his current position permits and Jack allows himself to be tipped over onto his back, because who is he to argue with someone who can kiss like that? Rupert’s weight comes down over him, and suddenly he’s _so_ hard. He groans, “Rupert– ”

The older man grins fiercely down at him. “Call me Giles,” he pants.

Jack sketches a salute and grins back. “Yes _Sir_!”

He doesn’t miss the way Rupert’s – no, Giles’ – eyes flash at that. Then they’re kissing again: wild, fierce, almost angry kisses that sometimes miss each other’s mouths and instead land on chins and noses and cheekbones. Their bodies struggle against each other too, pushing and heaving. Jack’s hands are everywhere, on shoulders, thighs, hair, ass, and they both moan as his hands _there_ suddenly cause Giles to give way against him, all his weight on Jack’s groin, cock against cock. Jack tilts his head back, panting, and rolls them over so that he’s on top and grinning down at the older man, hands framing his head. He kisses the open mouth lightly, teasingly, then the tip of his tongue pokes out to lick the open lips mischievously, and hands come down on him, one on his hair, the other on the back of his neck, drawing him down into a proper kiss. He gives in and kisses back full force till they’re both breathless and he breaks away the half-inch he can with those hands holding him down so they can pant for a moment before diving back in again.

And then Rupert – no, _Giles_ – heaves and he’s being rolled over _again_, and Giles’ mouth is at his throat and he shudders and tips his head back to encourage more. Giles’ hands scrabble at his shirt, and then, with frustration, at his braces. He lifts his shoulders to allow them to be pushed down his arms, and feels Giles’s predatory growl at the position that puts him in, throat open and exposed. He maintains it as long as he physically can, while Giles licks and sucks and nips at what feels like every square inch of his throat, then he collapses, panting, onto the floor and Giles swoops down and sucks hard on his Adam’s apple so that his fists clench, arms pinned to his sides by the braces. The mouth moves to suck on the pulse-point at the side of his neck and Giles murmurs dryly against his neck, “You’re very trusting. You only met me tonight. For all you know, I could be a vampire.”

Jack laughs breathlessly, because after all, he’s got his own reasons for not worrying about dying, even if vampires did exist, which they don’t, unless you count Plasmavores. “I’ll take my chances,” he replies – and gasps as Giles’ mouth travels lower into the gap of his open shirt, and Giles’ hands start to fumble again with the buttons of said shirt.

He doesn’t bother trying to roll them back over again. Giles is making it pretty clear that he wants to be on top and Jack’s really not going to argue.

He doesn’t bottom often. There was a time when he would _never_ bottom – when he was young and arrogant and didn’t understand – but the Doctor changed that. And he’s lived a long time since then. He still usually ends up topping, though, because as much as he loves the freedom and _comfort_ of subbing, it takes someone pretty strong-willed and confident to dominate him.

Giles is doing a pretty good job.

And suddenly, he can’t get Giles close enough, as that thought brings home to him just how much he wants someone to dominate him right now; to hold him and steady him and take care of him and just _make a connection_, damn it, because he’s lived longer than any man should have to live and he’s lost everyone he’s ever loved and it’s been _so long_… He realises he’s sobbing, clutching Giles’ head to him, kissing in frantic, sloppy kisses that clash painfully against teeth and jaw. And Giles lets him, till Jack’s spent, and then he pulls back gently and gazes down at Jack, eyes narrowed, the mists of alcohol being consciously pushed back and leaving behind the determined face of a man demanding answers.

Jack sighs and grits his teeth, wondering how he ever expected to get anything past those sharp, all-seeing eyes.

“You’re very –” Giles pauses, searching for a polite word when Jack knows the right one is ‘desperate’ – “needy. For such a charming, good-looking man. Has it been so very long?”

And Jack chokes back another sob that’s trying to be a laugh at that, and can’t stop himself retorting bitterly, half to himself, “Longer than you could possibly imagine.”

“Really?” Giles rolls off him, onto his side, still close – still touching – but the prospect of immediate, comforting, mind-numbing sex has retreated. Jack bites his lip and wishes he hadn’t drunk so much. Giles’ keen eyes are searching his face and he hasn’t the energy or the control to hide. Giles says gently, fumbling for the right question, “Why are you here, Jack?”

It’s impossible to tear his eyes away. He does the best he can and counters with: “Why are you?”

Giles’ mouth twists into a wry, self-mocking smile. “Touché.” His eyes darken. “But you know what I want, Jack. Company, comfort, a few hours to forget the mistakes I’ve made, the people I’ve left behind, the people I’ve lost…”

Jack forces a laugh. “Yeah, not so different, are we, Giles? We just want to forget for a few hours.”

“What is it _you_ want to forget?” Giles asks, head propped on hand, watching him, and Jack realises that in customary fashion he’s managed to reveal very little about himself to the other man.

Maybe Giles deserves more than that.

He rolls over to face Giles, props his own head up, and says, as evenly as he can, “Living.”

He’s not prepared for the effect that has on Giles. He watches, guiltily, as the other man looks first stunned, then understanding, and then infinitely sad. Giles has dealt with this before. He says softly, eyes turned inward to another time, another person: “The hardest thing in the world is to live in it.”

It sounds like a quote, but it’s not one Jack has ever heard before. Giles abruptly returns to the present and his eyes focus on Jack’s questioning face. “My – friend. The girl in the song. She died. And she was brought back. She didn’t want to come back. She was happy. And the reality she had to come back to was particularly harsh – losing her mother, trying to look after her little sister, financial insecurity, not to mention her usual responsibilities, which are far greater than most people’s. She’s still trying to come to grips with it all.”

Jack is the one who’s stunned now. He’d felt a connection with this man, but he hadn’t expected him to understand to quite that extent. “Yes,” he says quietly. “I can relate to that.”

Giles quirks an eyebrow, almost amused, not really believing him. “You’ve died?”

Jack’s too tired to lie any more. “Nine hundred and sixty-three times, at last count.”

He doesn’t know what reaction to expect, but plain interest definitely isn’t it. “You come back every time you die?”

“Got it in one.” A beat. “You actually believe me?”

Giles chuckles, sitting up and reaching for the whisky bottle and their two glasses. “You’d be surprised what I’ll believe. I’ve seen stranger things than that. I’ve never met anyone truly immortal before, though.”

He fills Jack’s glass and hands it to him, and Jack accepts it whilst still staring at him. “Just partially immortal, then,” he jokes.

“Vampires, for example,” Giles says coolly, and now Jack really is staring. “They don’t die of natural causes, so they can live – well, technically they’re undead, but we tend to call it living – for hundreds of years. But a stake through the heart will kill them and they won’t come back. Or sunlight. Or decapitation.”

“Oh, of course,” murmurs Jack, wondering just how much he’s had to drink.

Giles grins. “This girl – the one who died and came back – she’s a Vampire Slayer. I’m her Watcher.” He waits a moment, and when Jack shows no recognition of the terms, he continues, “But you don’t believe in vampires. Do you believe in magic?”

“Absolutely not.”

Giles shrugs. “It was magic that brought Buffy back. What keeps bringing you back?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must have some idea. How did you die, the first time?”

Jack hesitates. He doesn’t talk about himself. He just _doesn’t_.

He lowers his eyes to his glass, mocking himself for a coward, but he just can’t face talking about this right now. There’s too much back-story he’d need to give, and where would he start? ‘Aliens are real’? ‘I was exterminated by a Dalek’? Or, God, ‘Rose’? Or how about ‘I was born in the 51st Century’? It’s just too complicated.

And even if he does manage to explain, to get close to this man as he knows he wants to… it’s not going to last. Nothing lasts. He can see himself wanting to come back to Giles, to what Giles can give him, time and time again – but there’ll come a day when Giles isn’t going to be there. As Algy isn’t now. And it’s just too much to start something with someone, _again_, when it always ends the same.

He sets his glass down, misjudging it by a half an inch so amber liquid sloshes next to his hand as he uses the floor as a lever to get to his feet. “I’m sorry, Giles. I’d – better go.”

He’s not prepared for how quickly the older man can move. A gentle hand on his arm stops him before he’s even taken a step and he freezes, not looking round. Not daring to.

Giles says softly, “I’m sorry. That obviously touched a nerve.” A pause, during which Jack still doesn’t look round, though he’s burningly aware of the fingers on his bare forearm, holding him in place with no force at all. He hears Giles swallow. “Stay? Please?”

And it’s so much more a command than a plea, so much what he needs, that he turns round into Giles’ embrace. And Giles holds him tight and doesn’t make any promises about the rest of his life or even tomorrow. He’s there for tonight, and that’s enough. Jack’s made his connection.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is love; con-crit even better! :-)


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